Rivethead - Ben Hamper [25]
At times, I got bored and restless sittin’ on my ass in the middle of the Jungle. With my job securely covered, I occasionally set out wandering throughout the factory. I was completely overwhelmed by the size of the plant. It was the largest truck-producing facility in the entire world. I could only compare it to some huge, metallic ant farm, doomed and domed-over, a clamorous burg with a tall tin roof.
I walked for miles down the various aisleways and corridors with no idea of where I was headed or where I might end up. One night I might end up in the Tire Bay watchin’ the beer bellies wobble as they hustled tire after tire off the conveyor line. The men down there were in constant motion. They looked very depressed. I could recall that look from the visit to my own father's job. Car, windshield. Truck, radial. Repetition as strangulation. Shit, how'd I get so lucky?
The next night I might end up on the Final Line checkin’ out the finished product as they raced the engines and spanked life into those gleaming, overpriced Suburban and Blazer newborns. Way the hell down at the end of the Final Line you could see the sun setting. I would follow the rays and dip outside the door of this giant womb to lean against the wall and smoke cigarettes. No one knew who I was. I didn't know them either. That was part of the beauty. There were so many of us shoprats that we were all just part of some faceless herd. I could have been an inspector or a rookie or a guard or Roger Smith Jr. No one gave a shit.
As a summer progressed and the weeks slid slowly by, my pal Roy was beginning to unravel in a real rush. His enthusiasm about all the money we were makin’ had dissipated and he was having major difficulty coping with the drudgery of factory labor. Unable to arrange a double-up system with Dan-O, he wallowed in the slow-motion injustice of the time clock. His job, like mine, wasn't difficult, it was just plain monotonous. We hadn't even put in our ninety days yet (the minimum amount of service required for a worker to apply for sick leave) and Roy was already fast on the track to wiggin’ out.
We had been able to conquer the other annoyances. We adjusted to the heat and grew accustomed to the noise. After a while, we even got used to the claustrophobia of the wheel wells. The idea that we were being paid handsome wages to mimic a bunch of overachieving simians suited us just dandy. We had no lofty career goals. In America, or at least in Flint, as long as the numbers on your pay stub justified your daily bread, there was nothing more to accomplish.
The one thing that was impossible to escape was the monotony of our new jobs. Every minute, every hour, every truck and every movement was a plodding replica of the one that had gone before. The monotony gnawed away at Roy. His behavior began to verge on the desperate. The only way he saw to deal with the monotony was to numb himself to it. When the lunch horn sounded, we'd race out to his pickup and Roy would pull these enormous joints from the glove box. “Take one,” he'd offer. Pot made me nervous so I would stick to the beer from his well-stocked cooler or slug a little of the whiskey that was always on hand.
The numbing process seemed to demand more every night. We'd go out to the truck and Roy would burn two joints at a time. He'd snort coke whenever he could find it. “I don't know if I'm gonna make my ninety days,” he'd tell me. It was all part of Roy's master plan. Once he reached his ninety days’ seniority, he would round up a reliable quack, feign some mystery injury (spinal aggravations were the most popular malady) and, with all the paperwork,